Dancing Queen


By Scott King

When you walk into the club, with the lights and the people and the sounds and the noise and the good vibrations, does your inner voice scream at you, “Bail bail bail bail no one loves you no one loves you you will die alone you will die alone you’re alone in this world you’re alone in this world you’re alone in this world?”

Me neither. Just kidding. This happens to me often.

It’s usually because I don’t spot my friend by the time I’m three feet inside the coat check. I freeze up. I forget myself. The fight or flight instinct kicks in. I wish I knew how to fight.

Sometimes, I walk to the bar and order a drink and nod along to the music, COMPLETELY sober, then I endure another THREE MINUTES before I see somebody that I know.

It’s terrifying.

Upon sight, I approach my comrade cautiously, with the hollow excitement of a death row inmate dining on caviar. Does he really like me, or is he just a Plastic who has wanted to punch me in the face this whole time?

You can dance if you want to.

So, I do. When the music hits, I feel no pain at all. That’s the endorphins taking flight. When I get home, much, much later, my legs will be sore, and my joints will ache just a little bit, but I will not be tired. I will be wired. I will feel good all over. I will watch Scream or Scream 3 or Scream 4 until I fall asleep, grinning at the thought of another night’s glorious respite.

Where’s my trick, you ask? Oh, I must have left him in the Uber. Or maybe I forgot to change his name again. I snore. He can’t find his keys. He’s immaterial.

People need people, though. Lots and lots of people. And energy. And lights. And multiculturalism. And music. And fizzy drinks. And did I mention alcohol?

Alcohol is the key to unlock the door, but it is not the door. Nor is it the window. Nor should you be standing next to an open window in those heels.

If you have read this column before, you know that I don’t do drugs. I don’t condemn them, and I have not over the course of my life completely eschewed them, but I really don’t need them. Anymore or ever again.

Unless you count hormones. And energy. And love. And latte. And alcohol.

Alcohol is so beautiful. I mean, she’s, like, REALLY pretty. Just think the word “beer” and then push it through your mouth at the bartender and exchange a quick nod and some plastic and the beer will be in your hand within seconds. Dude already opened it for you. It’s perfect.

Like any spark, like any moment filled with joyful whimsy, it makes the world glisten for a long, long second. When that second is over, put the beer down. It will free your hands so that you can put them in the air, like you just don’t care. Even though you do. Care.

Well, I care. I care about not caring about whether or not it’s cool to make eye contact with people that I like or even love. To pat him on his bare chest not as foreplay but as a sign of encouragement to him and his soul that is about to burst forth when the beat drops.

When it’s good, gurl, I can’t stop. I can’t stop moving I can’t stop shaking I can’t stop candlestick making. I can’t stop dancing around like a twat. What? Is there some kind of problem that you have got?

No problem that can’t be answered with the euphoria, the gloria, the Astoria of love. And dancing.

I love dancing.

What do you love?

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